For A Second There
by MadDogNikki
Summary: Takes place during the third movie. My take on a certain scene between Scott and Logan in the very beginning. Has slashy undertones and is rated T only because of that. Might contain mild spoilers.


He catches up with me in the corridor.

The footfalls behind my back are light and fast. I speed up as well, unthinkingly, but still he closes the distance so easily – damn those long, _long_ legs. Even all that metal in his body – and I would bet adamantium is no light alloy – even it doesn't slow him down enough. He is still fast. _Too_ fast.

"You weren't there in the Danger Room."

_Oh really? And I didn't know that…_

"I had to fill in for you."

"I never asked you to do that," I snap back, finally turning to face him.

And his eyes burn me. I will never see what color his eyes are. Somebody told me once that they were hazel. Who? It even might have been Jean… and it even might have been because I asked her that question myself… and she might have even smiled when answering it, with that familiar smile, a little playful, _understanding_… back then, long ago, everything might have been.

It burns, because the look in his eyes is soft, a little sad, worried…

Warm.

"You didn't," he agrees easily. "But _they_ did."

And I don't care. I don't say that aloud. He is sure to understand that without any words. You won't say so at first sight, but he is no fool. Not at all. I don't care what they ask for. I don't care what they want me to do. Once, back then, long ago, maybe a hundred year ago for all it feels like, I only wanted them to do one simple thing. I asked them, I begged them – don't let her die! Don't let her do what she wants to do! Help her! Help _me_… They couldn't help. She didn't let them – or that's what they told me. So they don't owe me anything. Only it means that I don't owe them anything, either.

I don't care.

Right.

He grabs my wrist. When I'm already about to leave, yes, to leave him in that damn corridor with those hazel eyes, and those hints, and those worries, and that compassion I never asked for, - just then he grabs me by the wrist and holds me down.

"Wait."

And I freeze. I could break free from his hold – he's not _that_ much stronger than me. But I don't do that. I just freeze, because he has placed his hand – with such an accidental (_really accidental?_) precision – right over that narrow strip of skin between the leather of my jacket sleeve and the leather of my glove, my _bare, uncovered_ skin that feels the warmth so desperately acutely.

"You have to understand," he tells me, and deep in his (_allegedly hazel_) eyes there is pain, dark and bitter. "You have to understand: she is dead. Dead."

My upper lip curls up, baring my teeth. I _snarl_. I snarl at him, because he hits the sore spot, hits the open wound, hits painfully. I snarl, and this miserable attempt at a snarl must seem amusing to him at best. I am human, and he is an _animal_, and next to him I really am laughable… only he isn't laughing. He doesn't seem to find it funny at all.

"Dead," he repeats softly. "And you are not. I loved her, too. But I really think… it's time to move on."

We stand there and stare at each other, and his fingers are still circling my wrist, and the warmth is slowly spreading from the spot throughout my arm, and his eyes… I don't understand why his eyes look like _this_, why he is looking like this at me – _me_, of all people… but for a second there, while I'm staring back into these eyes, I'm willing to think, willing to _believe_ that it could actually work, that I really could move on, could live on – aching, never forgetting, but – _live_! Maybe I could even dig myself out of this insanity after some time, step out of this red-laced darkness I'm living in… and that he – _he_, of all people – could help me do it. That's what his eyes are telling me. What they are offering me. What they are promising me. And for second there, I believe them. For a whole second I'm almost ready to accept the offer.

And then _she_ calls me again. Her call is soft, ever so soft, so deafeningly soft.

_Scott… Scott… help me, Scott…_

And then shame hits me. Hot, burning, murderous shame. How could I! How could I stand here with him, talk to him, contemplate future… _future_, where there's no place for _her_? Shame, shame and _guilt_, because I know _how_ I could. I know _what_ I want. And she knew it, too. Even back then. She knew what I wanted, but she smiled, she only just smiled, and I thought it was okay, I thought everything was right…

If we had been okay, I wouldn't have let her die.

And I did.

I jerk my hand away and there's no resistance – he lets go at once, and it's only the warmth left from his touch that doesn't die out for another few moments.

I turn my back on him and walk away, almost running, afraid that he will catch up with me again, touch me again, and then… I don't know what I will do then. I have no idea.

But I hear no footfalls behind my back.

Instead, I hear voices in my head.

And it makes no sense at all, but all I regret is that I can't even remember what kind of color _hazel_ is.

-----------------------------------------------

I knew he wouldn't listen to me. He doesn't like advice much, especially when it comes from me. Before, when he was okay in the head – _too much okay_, for my liking – he still could consider someone else's idea, even mine, if it was sensible. But now… now I can't even imagine what goes on in that head of his. He snapped. He's totally off the hinges. He doesn't show up at the classes anymore, he doesn't want to talk to anyone most of the time… and he stopped shaving some time ago, and, weirdly enough, that's what worries me most of all.

Of course he didn't listen to me.

That's not good.

Not good at all.

In fact, that's pretty bad.

I don't know why it feels off so much. Just what can he do, anyway? I even know where he must have gone. Took a beeline for the Alkali Lake, I bet. It's not the first time he's done it, either. He's of that kind who cemeteries were invented for. Of the kind who need to go and visit a gravesite every once in a while. To talk to a slab of stone, to spill their misery, maybe, even to take a good bawl while no-one is looking… and then to go back home. Only Jeannie happens to have no grave. The Lake is her grave. A huge, cold, watery grave. And so he goes there when he needs to talk to her. We eventually stopped worrying. No-one would call him quite sane now, but he isn't a suicidal type. He has been taught that it's the coward's way, and he has too much of that boyish pride in him to take it.

But still, it feels off. And I can't just wave it off. My experience has proved that if I feel off that in itself is a reason to worry.

Maybe it's because a little while ago something in him _changed_ again. I don't know what, I don't know why, I don't know if it was for the worse or for the better, but I can sense it. Something is happening to him… but these days he won't even talk to Professor about it, and the Psychic Guy won't get into his favorite boy scout's brain to find it out. His ethics won't let him, sure enough… When he finds it necessary, really, really necessary, he doesn't give a shit for ethics, he just goes and does what needs to be done. But, likely, he doesn't think that it's really, really necessary to help Cyke sort out his feelings.

He must be right, but I'm still a bit pissed at him.

It's bad that the kid didn't listen to me. It's bad that I couldn't stop him. And for a second there – for a whole second! – I thought I'd make it. His face went so weird… At times I'd give the world just to be able to see his eyes. Talking to this guy, you realize just how much we depend on eye contact for understanding people. I didn't see his eyes, I only saw him freeze, saw his face change… And for all of a second I hoped he'd stay. I didn't think much of what he'd do then, because it didn't really matter. Whatever he'd have done, I'd go along with it. I'd do anything just so that he didn't change his mind. Because no matter what he thinks with his stubborn little head, I do understand him and I do care for him.

I do care.

But I didn't see his eyes and so I must have misunderstood. I guess he wasn't thinking about me at all. Wasn't thinking about the things I was telling him. He must have been thinking of Jean. He's always thinking of Jean. And that's only natural… but still, it really pisses me off at times. _Jeannie, girl, you died for him… so why are you trying to drag him in to lie beside you now?_ Oh, I know how dumb it is to blame her for anything. I'm not really blaming her. I loved her. And I'm thankful to her. I'll always be thankful.

But what is happening to him is happening because of her.

Bad, bad, bad.

I'm restless.

And when I hear that silent scream in my head (_Scott!_), right then, at once, I _know_. I don't want to believe it, I tell myself not to believe it – because I ain't no psychic, what the hell, how would I know… but I _know_, that it's too late now. Too late for anything.

And yet I whirl into the corridor, I all but bump into 'Ro, exchanging short, hasty lines with her (_Did you hear that? – Yes, I did, let's hurry…_), and we hurry into Professor's office, hurry our asses off… as if that could change anything.

And it's not him I'm thinking about. Or, rather, it's not _just_ him.

I'm thinking of her.

And it makes me feel ashamed, but I can't do anything about it.

I've had all kinds of feelings towards Jean. I loved her. I wanted her. At times I looked down on her. At times she made me quite angry.

But now, as I'm rushing down the stairs, leaping over three steps at a time, bumping elbows with 'Ro, I remember him standing there in the corridor, his hair messed up, his face unshaven and motionless, his pulse, fast and uneven, beating under my palm…

And for the first time in my life I think I _hate_ her.


End file.
